Plain Kate (17 page)

“Linay!” she gasped. The mob was all around them.

The magician grasped her arms and hauled her up, and for an instant they were face-to-face, forearms clasped, like warriors. “Flee this city,” he whispered as one of the pikemen pulled him toward the gate and the others tried to keep the crowd from killing him. Stones and mud came flying. Linay snuck Kate a smile. It was boyish, terrified, and amazed. The pikemen jerked him away.

“Linay!” Kate shouted after him.

And again, she saw his frightened eyes snatch at her, like a drowning man. She threw out a hand—

But it was too late. His smile hardened, and he was gone.

“Katerina!” Taggle and Drina were fighting their way sideways toward her as the crowd started to push again to enter the imagined safety of the city. The gate was still half raised. Linay wouldn’t stoop to go under it; the guards couldn’t bend him. The portcullis—it was a huge thing of iron-backed oak—screeched upward while behind it more guards lowered and braced their pikes.

Then, somewhere in the field of tents and desperate people, lightning struck. The noise of it shook the ground; its passage opened the air and cold rain poured down. The crowd screamed like one animal and surged against the gates. The girls were shoved along as if at the front of a wave. Kate hit her head on the gate and then was under it. Taggle leapt from Drina’s arms and dove between the pikemen. “This way!” he shouted. They went at a staggering run, following the cat as he darted out the other end of the gate tunnel and turned sharply down a tiny alleyway.

The crowd roared on; the people of the abandoned country poured through the gates, unstoppable as a river. Kate and Drina followed Taggle. They scrambled up a water barrel and onto the roof of a shed, and from there onto a higher roof. They knocked loose slates that went skittering down the steep pitch and fell into the rushing crowd. Faces turned up toward them. The two girls lay back panting, out of sight, while Taggle peered over the gutter edge like a gargoyle.

They huddled there a long time, until the crowd thinned and only the dead were left in the gate square below.

“Well,” drawled Taggle. “Now how do we stop him?”

“He wants to be burned,” said Kate. “Oh, God, he wants to be burned. He said it would need a great spell to join the shadow and the rusalka together. A great spell—a great sacrifice. He’s going to sacrifice
himself
.” The cold downpour washed over her. She remembered Linay’s face, terrified and exultant. He would join the rusalka to the shadow with his own death. The winged thing would kill everything it touched. Everyone. The whole city. Kate shook. “He told me to flee.”

“Hmmm,” said Taggle, picking his way over the loose slates. “Fleeing is not a bad plan.”

Kate ignored him. “Where will they take him?” she asked Drina. “Where did they take Lenore?”

“Katerina—” Taggle began.

“Drina, where?”

Drina looked shattered. “The courts,” she whispered. “At the center of the city. But, Kate—we can’t. We tried. When they took my mother, we tried. They only laughed. Our
Baro
said we were lucky they only laughed.”

Below them the guards had begun to trickle back into the gate square. They were making piles of the dead: the crushed pikemen and those who had been crushed against the pikes. Kate didn’t look, but she couldn’t shut out the scrapes and heavy thuds. “Taggle,” she said, “find us a way to the center of the city.”

The cat regarded her thoughtfully, steady as two isin-glass lamps. Then he turned and led them away, across the rooftops, fearless and nimble.

The downpour slowed to a cold soaking rain. The steep roofs were slippery, but they didn’t dare go into the streets. Men in the dark garb of the city watch roamed in packs and harried the refugees from doorways and alleys. So Drina and Kate stuck to the roofs, inching, sliding, scraping, keeping out of sight. It was slow and excruciating. The light was sinking by the time they came to a rooftop overlooking the great square.

Across from them towered the city hall, with its pitched roof and heavy-lidded windows, and a church, its spire thick with monsters. A squat building filled the space between church and hall, its windows barred and its windows guarded. “The courts,” Drina whispered. “And there—” She stopped speaking and pointed down.

On a little stage in the center of the square stood the weizi, the carved pillar that should be a town’s heart. But this one was uncarved. And it was stone. That was so strange to Kate’s carver’s heart that she could hardly take it in. A plain pillar—no, Kate realized, it was not a pillar, it was a stake, a burning stake on a little stage, which had seen who knows how many deaths. She swallowed and for a moment wanted to just let the city fall under the rusalka’s wings. That quick death was better than this city deserved.

The stone city, Linay had told her once, had a stone heart. And here it was. Nearby, the canal where Lenore had drowned slapped under the lip of the docks.

The dimming day was quiet and the lid of the sky twisted sounds. Kate wasn’t quite sure whether she could hear screaming. “Linay…” she whispered, and gripped the gutter to steady herself. “Drina. How long do we have? Will they—will they burn him tonight?”

Drina shook her head. “They’ll have a trial…an ordeal.” She was silent so long that Kate almost asked her, almost had to think of a way to ask:
How long did they torture your mother?

“Tomorrow,” said Drina, before Kate had to find those words. “They’ll torture him tonight, make him confess. They’ll burn him tomorrow. When people can watch.”

Kate pushed the dripping hair out of her eyes and peered at the squat bulk of the courts, its little windows barred and squinting. “We have to get him out.”

“The grand duke’s army could not get him out,” said Taggle.

“I don’t want to watch him burn,” whispered Drina.

Kate tried to stay practical, and so answered Taggle: “Maybe we can get in.”

“Oh!” said Taggle brightly. “And kill him in his sleep in there!” Despite his cheerful tone, the look he threw the black building was skeptical. “There’s bound to be a cellar or two, I suppose. I will look.” And he jumped fearlessly from the edge of the gutter, sprang down to a ledge Kate hadn’t even seen, down again to slip across a windowsill, and down again to vanish, gray, into the gray light.

The ghost of the scream came again in the chilly twilight. “I’m going to be sick,” Drina choked. She backed away from the edge. Kate turned her back on the square and followed. Farther back on the roof, jammed against a taller wall, they found shelter. It wasn’t much: a ruined dovecote between two huge chimneys, with a scrap of roof and a rain-wrecked honeycomb of dove boxes, white droppings thick over everything. It smelled sharply sour, like the bear cage in which the Roamers had kept the chickens, and in which Kate had been burned. The smell made her skin shudder and her mouth taste metal.

She was sure of it now, as the night fell: Somewhere nearby, Linay was screaming.

¶

In the darkness, Kate waited for Taggle’s return. She held the burl wood carving of Lenore’s face in her hands, using the edge of her knife to polish a rough bit here and there. Drina dozed shivering beside her, the heavy clouds pressed close over her, and the city slept restlessly below her. Taggle was gone a long time, long enough for Kate to struggle in and out of dreams: She was bent over her cabinet box in Samilae, carving, only she had wings instead of a shadow. She was lost in a maze of stone streets and someone was screaming, and then the stones melted. She was holding Taggle’s body in her arms.

She woke with Taggle’s cold nose nudging hers. His fur was damp and smeared with foul mud. She stroked him and loose hairs clung to her hands.

“A dark place, full of blood smell and fear smell and grates and grilles,” he reported. “It would take a rat to slip in—a skinny one. There will be no rescue.”

“I dreamt… ” Kate tipped her head back. The crumbling bricks of the chimney caught and yanked at her hair. “…no rescue.”

Taggle eyed her. “You’re planning something.”

“If I go down there,” she said slowly, “the guard will see that I have no shadow. They’ll arrest me. And then—maybe I can get close to him.”

“No,”
said Taggle. “No friend of mine will take on such a fate.”

Kate looked down at Lenore’s carved face. She remembered promising her father that she would be a full master by twenty, and she had been right: This was her masterpiece. But what was going to happen instead was that she was going to die. She said, “Someone will notice my shadow soon, Taggle. It will happen eventually.”

“Not here,” he said. “Not like this. You didn’t see it. You can’t imagine.” The cat sighed and paced up and down in front of the dovecote. Finally he turned to her. “Katerina, this city is a rat’s place. Let us leave the rats to the rats and go on with our adventures. What say you?”

She wanted to say yes. There was nothing to love in the walls of Love. But there had been little to love in Toila either, and yet a stranger had saved them. And in Samilae, where an axe had come from the darkness, Niki had stayed strong and kind. “There must be a basket woman,” said Kate, “or a baker.”

“Well then,” said the cat. “He means to kill himself in this stupid way. We must either kill him before he can, or save him from it.” He shook his head, human, fretful. “I suppose one chance or the other might present itself. Personally I think we should aim for killing him.”

Drina shifted in her thin sleep, and shivered. Kate watched her sleeping for a while, wishing for a scrap of blanket. The rain was so cold. Finally she asked, “Will we…will we all live?”

“I doubt it,” drawled the cat. “We put our lives on claw tip to do this, Katerina. Tell me you are sure.”

“I have to stop him, Taggle. My blood. My shadow. He used me to do this. It’s my fault and I have to fix it.”

Taggle sat up, slender and strong as a column, unshakable. He made no suggestions. Kate rubbed him between the ears. She could still feel the lump where Stivo’s axe had hit him. He climbed into her lap, rumbling, and she huddled into the broken chimney’s meager heat.

“We must get close to him,” said Taggle. “Close enough to spring. If chance comes, we must be ready.”

“The stake,” she said. “He’ll—he’ll be brought there.”

¶

So at first light they found their way down into the square, to the burning place.

The stake was a neatly built thing, and horrible in its neatness. The platform was stone and nearly as tall as they were. A flight of steps was cut into the side. A stone lip would keep the fire contained. And there would be fire: There was already a stack of split logs and branches, like a great stork’s nest, around the stake. They stank of pitch and tallow. More barrels of pitch were lined up like condemned men at the platform’s foot. Kate and Drina wormed their way between these and crouched down to wait.

It was a strange morning. The light was like a bruise. Cold breezes blew straight down from low clouds—clouds like a wall of boulders hanging over their heads. Above those clouds, Kate was certain, something circled. Something hungered. Something waited.

Between the curved black walls of the barrels, Kate and Drina watched the square fill. Hawkers sold pretzels and roasted nuts, tinkers peddled charms, musicians played, acrobats tumbled. But you could not buy fur or cloth, raw meat or flour, or anything that would take more than an hour to make. It was not a market: It was a carnival.

“They’re saying they’ve caught him,” reported Taggle, slinking in from the crowd. “That soon the rain will lift and life will be better. They mean to burn him at noon. Also, they are selling meat pies.”

They waited. The crowd grew larger, and soon they could see little but legs, good boots, and patten shoes holding dainty slippers above the puddles. Taggle kept mentioning the meat pies. The bells in the church told the hours: Nine. Ten. Eleven. They crept out from between the barrels. Twelve.

They could hear Linay coming. The jeering in the crowd preceded him like the tide coming up the river. People around them seemed to puff up; what had been a tight crowd was suddenly a crush. Kate was jostled. Taggle sprang up on top of a barrel. Drina pressed close. They couldn’t see anything.

Then, suddenly, almost in arm’s reach: Linay.

His hands were tied in front of him. The gray-bearded man in the red sash, the master of the guard, was yanking him up the steps like a bear on a leash. Another guard was at his back, walking backward, sword drawn, keeping the press of people clear.

The crowd gave a roar as Linay staggered on the steps, swayed on the platform. One eye was bruised—a startling blot on his too-light face—and one side of his white hair was torn bald in patches, matted with blood. The guard master jerked him sideways. He stumbled, crashed into the stake, then grunted as the master’s cudgel caught him in the ear. He stood stunned as the man cut his hands free.

No,
Kate thought.
Don’t make me see this.

On the stake, a few feet up, an iron ring protruded from the stonework. Swiftly, like someone who had done it many times, the guard master lashed one of Linay’s wrists to the ring.

A breathless hush settled on the crowd.

The master hefted his club again, and Kate could see it play out in her head: He would strike the throat or the back of the neck, enough to daze. He would wrench Linay around, put his back to the stake and his wrists both behind. So that the crowd could see his face, of course. While he burned.
He came to kill these people,
she thought,
and we have no business stopping him. How can we stop him?
The guard brought his club back just as Kate thought he would and swung it—

—and Linay’s arm came up like a sail snapping round. The cudgel glanced off his forearm as he whirled. He struck at the man’s face, fast as a snake. His hand closed over the mouth: white and wild over that neat gray beard. He leaned close. “All this time hunting witches,” he hissed, “and you never thought you would find one that was dangerous?” He blew a stream of breath into the man’s face.

The master reared away, clawing at his face and throat. His grand hat went flying. Kate couldn’t tell what had happened until a stray beam of sun struck a gleam from the guard’s face. It was ice. Linay had set a mask of ice across the nose and throat, cutting off the air. The man fell from the platform, turning an ugly purple. The crowd edged backward.

Linay grinned at them. There was nothing wavering or weak about him now. He towered and he laughed. “Come, now,” he called. “Don’t go! There’s going to be a burning!” And he hurled something toward the mob that set them screaming. Something small and stinging hit Kate as she huddled against the barrel: ice.

The ice had hardly pricked—it hurt less than hail—but the crowd panicked. They bolted and their force, impersonal as an axe, caught Kate. She staggered, saw Taggle go flying, saw Drina go down. She dove sideways and shoved Drina behind the barrels. They clung to each other, bruised and panting, while the crowd bucked and squealed and fled.

Kate raised her head. It had happened so fast. The square was almost empty. A few people—those who had fallen beneath too many feet—were lying heaped on the cobbles, drifted at the gates. There were piggish moans in the air, and a smell of blood.

The remaining guard, the one with the sword, had held his place. He turned on Linay, and lunged. Linay, one-handed, caught the blade in his naked hand. Kate saw blood begin to slick it, and then a rime of frost. Linay locked eyes with the guard, who froze. The sword grew black with cold, and smoked—and shattered.

“Thank you,” said Linay, stooping to pick up a jagged piece. “I needed a blade.”

The wide-eyed man backed away.

Linay stood fixed, regarding the shard in his hand. And as the guard stumbled away past the heaped bodies, Kate, Taggle, and Drina found themselves alone at the foot of the platform.

Kate drew a deep breath, and climbed the stone steps.

And then she was standing, empty-handed, at the pillar, with no idea what to do.

“Katerina,” said Linay.